


Bertie and the Thing He Ought Not to Have Seen

by awittyname



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - Wodehouse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-25
Updated: 2010-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awittyname/pseuds/awittyname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things that one is just not meant to see, what? Bertie finds that the very foundations of his world are rocked when he comes across something he was obviously not meant to see. It was rather akin to finding out that Father Christmas wasn't real</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bertie and the Thing He Ought Not to Have Seen

There are some things that one is just not meant to see, what? Certain things, like seeing any Aunt dressing are apt to scar one for life, (and could very much explain the mental state of my cousins Claude and Eustace, as they had the misfortune of walking into my Aunt Agatha's room instead of their own when they were wee little nippers and got more of an eyeful than they'd ever wanted) and there are certain things that one simply does not mention that they've seen. For example, the sorts of picture postcards that one doesn't want to display, excepting of course if they're at school, at which point they become nearly a form of currency. Nor is one meant to see the sorts of things that happen on moonlit strolls, as I'm sure none of my chums would admit to spewing Basset-esque sop to whatever lady they happen to be wooing.

The point I'm getting at, dear reader, is that we all tend to behave differently when we don't believe ourselves to be under observation. A different private face to the public one. Roderick Spode-now Lord Sidcup, for instance, ran a lingerie shop in private, before he got his peerage. I know that if my chums knew how utterly boring I was when not out and about-they'd likely think less of me. Anyway, there's something about acting when one is not under a watchful eye that makes one more apt to do things that they'd never once be caught doing.

I hadn't thought Jeeves to be mere mortal man, at any time of my life-I'd rather thought him to be like that Hercules chap, not quite a god, but something rather close to it. Mythical, that's what he was. And for all intents and purposes, he was quite glad to keep up the appearance of being that way. I've never really had the chance to see Jeeves at any time when he was anything, well, less than Jeeves, aside from running across him on his nights off when on exodus to some small country town to escape from aunts and fiancées, and even then it wasn't exactly outside of the watchful eye of the public, what? But if anyone, even Bingo Little, who I'd known practically since birth and would trust anything he said, had told me what I'd see when I walked into the kitchen that afternoon, I would have never believed them. Even if Jeeves had told me, I fancy I'd have simply thought he was putting me on.

Because no one can be prepared to see their valet kneeling on the floor, jar of peanut butter in hand, positively cooing to the little white ball of fur that normally went by the name of McIntosh. I'd been tasked with keeping an eye on the mongrel for my Aunt Agatha, and when faced with an order from Aunt Agatha, who wears concertina wire as her underthings, and who happens to sacrifice small nephews on the full moon, one does not disagree. So I had the pup running around the place for a few weeks time while Aunt A got up to something on the continent. I hadn't thought it wise to ask questions and prolong the conversation any longer than it needed to be. If one talks to her too long, she's apt to talk you into marrying some poor girl.

I'd known small furry animals had a habit of producing such effects in people of similar temperament to Madeline Basset, that is, the sort that seem to see the world through rose-colored glasses, and ramble on about how lovers are two souls who were separated at time immemorial. I'd seen said Basset in question talking to Stiffy Byng's pooch in a voice that was two registers higher than her usual (which meant that the dog was likely the only thing that could hear her), with much cooing and nonsense syllables thrown in. Even I was not entirely immune to the soothing effect of animals, as I found that the urge to scritch such things behind the ears would occasionally affect the Wooster hands without the Wooster mind entirely knowing what was going on, but I'd thought Jeeves rather immune to everything, including the effects of s.f.a's.

Obviously, however, all that I had known about the world had been a lie, and it'd all come toppling down around my ears; as I was currently watching Jeeves rubbing the beast's belly, talking like one does to a newborn. There was much I couldn't quite make out through my shock, but I'd managed to catch the words “good” and “boy” thrown in there, and McIntosh was rather happily attempting to lick a smear of peanut butter off of his nose, obviously in some sort of doggie heaven. Jeeves, for his part, had a rather genuine smile on his face, and not merely the little twitch about the lips that usually gave away that there was some hint of emotion underneath that stuffed-frog facade.

Realizing that I'd rather stumbled upon one of those things that the young master was clearly not intended to see, I backed out of the kitchen, and settled down on the sofa to process what I had seen. While not scarring in the same sense as catching my Aunt A in her barbed wire underthings would be, it was still one of those sights that left one feeling traumatized at seeing. This was Jeeves, stalwart paragon, who did not crack under pressure, Jeeves, who didn't so much as flinch when pricked. Not even the time when he'd found himself sitting on a tack left out as a bit of a prank by some young blighter when we'd been staying at Maywood, at the behest of some woman-or-another I'd been forced to risk matrimony with. He'd merely stood, excused himself, and, from all accounts I've heard of the tale, boxed the young blot soundly round the ears. But still without any sign of there being any fracturing of the stuffed-frog facade.

So to see the wall that he'd so soundly built up around himself completely removed, well, I might as well have seen him naked, what? He just wasn't _Jeeves_ when he was down to his shirtsleeves and giving a pup a bit of a belly rub. Oh sure, he still bore the outward appearance, but it reminded me of being told that Father Christmas was simply a myth. Rocked me to the core. I got up to pour myself a b&amp;s to cope with the revelation that this paragon of paragons was, in fact, prone to some of the same afflictions as young women, and lit a meditative cigarette. I'd always thought that on occasions when there'd been a reason for there to be a canine running around the flat that he'd simply agreed to it out of the feudal spirit. After all, it wasn't his place to go telling off aunts and houseguests when they imposed. I'd never once considered that the reason he didn't give the things the same disproving eye he gave new ties and spats was because he was _fond_ of the pooches.

But now, faced with the fact that he obviously went Basset-y when faced with a four-legged friend and out of sight of anyone that would judge, I found myself unable to deny the fact that yes, Jeeves liked dogs. Having never grown up with any sort of pet around the house, I'd never had the chance to really know much about what made people keep them. They were nice to have around, I supposed, in that they'd curl up next to you while reading, and provide a dashed nice place to rest your arm and something to do with an otherwise unoccupied hand-as when there was a pup under one's hand, it was rather hard to avoid giving it a meditative scritch behind the ears-but I'd never really considered the merits of having a pet before. After all, it brought with it it's own set of issues, did it not? I'd often heard that taking care of a dog was rather akin to taking care of a child, and if that was the case I had no interest in keeping one around full-time to see if it was true.

But then again, in all the stints I'd found myself forced to take care of some mongrel or another, with the exception of the one that had been one that had been won by one Lord Pershore when I'd been stuck with putting the blighter up for a few weeks and who decided that the Wooster leg was a perfectly acceptable midnight snack, they'd been rather easy going. One simply bunged down a bowl of food and a bowl of water, and took them out a few times a day and they were happy. They certainly didn't cry at all hours of the night, or tug at your sleeve and ask you to play with them, or ask for sweets, or go around putting tacks on chairs for people to sit on.

No, I supposed, having a dog around the flat wasn't an entirely unfeasible idea. After all, they obviously brought out a heretofore unknown side of Jeeves-and a heretofore unknown ability to smile. Instead, I set the Wooster brain upon pondering what sort of canine would fit best into our tranquil domestic setting

Fin


End file.
